


a soft epilogue

by pcdolski



Category: Football - Fandom, Football RPF, Schweinski - Fandom, Soccer - Fandom
Genre: European Championship, Euros 2016, Germany, Germany NT - Freeform, M/M, die mannschaft - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7619518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pcdolski/pseuds/pcdolski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Brother, best friend, teammate, roommate and World Champion. Wearing the DFB jersey is the biggest honour and we've done it together. Thank you for always being a leader, thank you for always giving everything for your country, thank you for everything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a soft epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> this might look suspicious but it's really not our fault that bastian actually retired now. every complaint please

 

_I think we deserve_

_a soft epilogue, my love._

_we are good people_

_and we've suffered_

_enough._

 

 

 

When they arrive in France, Lukas decides that there’s an element of it that’s almost remarkable and not even a string of bad friendlies or the media coming for him can drag him down. If he hears nasty words about him, he doesn’t listen, and if they’re even worse so about Basti, he shuts them out.

He talks to Basti more than they did before, they both enter into silent agreement that they’re too old not to, they don’t waste any time. They make a point of tip toeing around words that sound like injury or retirement or transfers though, blocking out ugly headlines and even uglier words. Something dull nags at Lukas, because there’s something bitter in that too, so much is happening and Basti isn’t saying it.

He makes a beeline for the reception desk, swipes the key card to his room and murmurs a thank you. He slows his step to let Basti catch up, they walk in perfect time. Something pools in his chest with familiarity.

 

They begin training, it feels like the pride of 2004 but heavier. Instead of being Germany’s young hopes, they are the last of the Golden Generation and it’s something Lukas can’t quite swallow, they slip into unfamiliar skins. They’re well rehearsed, they are, twelve years of building and a country waiting. But the finality of what this means hangs heavy on Lukas and even the familiar fingers that guide him through don’t settle. The frustration and pity and unburned fuel and _—_ Lukas knows his left foot still works as well as it did before.

He emphasises his point by pummeling balls into the corners of goals and watching them ripple, he looks to Basti too.

 

Ukraine comes quickly enough, no second glances are spared when he is left off the starting eleven, but they feel prepared for this. They step out, warm up, the stretch and burn, Lukas almost forgot how this felt.

Basti puts a firm hand on his shoulder, pushes their way through — he looks at Lukas before the whistle blows, they know what to do.

 

The match blurs, they’re one up when they should be more but a win’s a win, they’re the World Champions but they can settle. He should be on the edge of his seat but he’s not, he feels young again in how he’s overwhelmed and he can’t pinpoint what it is. But then suddenly Basti is pulled up from his side and there’s a feeling of bewilderment.

 

It’s only a few minutes to the end but if it gives Basti this, it’s worth it, Lukas sees the fire as he sprints onto the pitch.  And then suddenly Basti’s running, and then suddenly he’s ahead and then suddenly he’s — oh my God — Lukas can’t see anything but the goal and it’s Basti and — oh my god, _he’s done it._

 

He’s up on his feet and — _fuck_ — Basti’s sprinting towards him and Lukas doesn’t know what to feel, he sees red. There’s a desire and fight at Basti’s heels when he runs across the pitch and there’s a glint in his eyes and for the first time, _he feels awake._ And it’s nostalgic and beautiful and his heart is gulping down air and none of them know what to do.  
  
Basti tugs at the back of his shirt, pulling him tighter. Lukas can feel his lips at his ear, his hot wet breath, mouth shielded from prying eyes, mumbling, “This one’s for you, Podolski.”

Lukas whispers back an _always,_ he thinks that Basti doesn’t know what he meant.

 

And then there’s the sinking, because Lukas seems so far away from this reality and he’s not ready to be left behind, he’s not ready to _let this go_ , he knows he never had any claim.

But, it’s still Basti — _12 years_ — and he falls in love with the reckless nineteen year old boy with the firecracker mouth all over again.

 

Lukas pushes Basti into the corner when they’re in the tunnel for a moment of quiet. The lights of the stadium filter through, just enough to see angry marks left on Basti’s skin like train tracks. Lukas follows them, mumbles something that sounds like pride _— like remembering —_ and when he presses their bodies together, he pretends it will be like this forever.

 

 

It’s about 2 in the morning and he knows he should be asleep but Lukas feels a tugging at his chest, he uses the cold outside to heal it. The wind nips at him in little bites, he wraps his own arms around himself in vain _— god knows he should’ve brought more than a hoodie down —_ and if anyone else was here, they would’ve accused him of Strassenkicker promotion too.

He stays outside for a while, the cold and the lights reflecting oddly remind him of Munich, weary, until he sees Basti too.

He sits down next to Lukas, not without a groan he fails to keep quiet, and Lukas thinks that and the thin creases on his face are the only difference in twelve years.

 

“Can’t sleep either?” Basti eventually asks, his voice breaks the silence, eyes fixed onto something further out, Lukas can’t quite figure it out.  
  
“Hmm,” he just murmurs, lips pressed together, Basti puffs out air in response, they stay quiet.

Lukas feels the concrete underneath them, they try and settle down and they resign to silence, occasionally collide ankles or shoulders or elbows. If Lukas knocks Basti once, he plays it off as an accident, if he does it again, he’s just reminding himself of the company.

 

“28 days, Lukas.”

 

“Don’t say that,” Lukas whispers, there’s a slow realisation dawning, a panic because they’re running out of time and _— it just needs to_ _stop_.

 

“Don’t say what?”  
  
Lukas can feel Basti’s eyes locked onto him, they were both always this stubborn, but Basti’s bleary eyed and he refuses to back down.  
  
“You know exactly what I mean, Basti. Don’t say it, not now.” His voice is calm but firm, avoids anything that sounds like urgency. He thinks that if this is what it means to be brave, bravery is just a party trick.  
  
From the corner of his eye he can see Basti opening his mouth, just to close it right after. He turns his head and nods quietly, it feels like dust settling.

 

They sit until they feel an ache, a burn of an old injury maybe, they don't say anything even when they force themselves to stay longer. 

 

_28 days left._

 

 

The tournament goes somewhat smoothly, they stick closer together than before but no one makes anything of that but them. Poland, Ireland, Slovakia _—_ they’re on track but Lukas grows restless on the bench, Basti has an injury scare that makes Lukas’ throat go dry, he doesn’t let it grow bitter. He memorises the proximity between him and Basti, small feeling in his chest, he thanks God for the chance.

Basti near him becomes an all-consuming thing and Lukas thinks it’s ironic because they’re not young anymore, he knows the damage that this does, tree roots unfurl in the dirt. He relearns how this feels because it’s all they know _—_ whispers in hallways, small kisses, louder words, the way they would tug each other through hotel room doors.

 

When they hear it’s going to be Italy, the room goes silent, Basti reaches for his hand.

 

It’s Italy so, of course, the feeling’s different, but Lukas feels like they could have a chance, everyone already knows the face he’s about to make. He remembers the last time, hollow and nauseous and repulsive and he wanted someone to hold him down and — Lukas refuses to think.

The stadium is thumping and Basti puts a hand on the small of Lukas’ back, Lukas lets him — then they go.

 

The minutes pass, chances too, they don’t score _—_ _they don’t fucking score._ Fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, half time _—_ _nothing_ _—_ sixty five minutes and _—_ _holy fuck Mesut has it_ _—_ Lukas jumps to his feet, he finds Basti and it’s like _fire_.

But then Jerome’s hand goes up, minute seventy eight, and Bonucci sobers them up, they keep pressing. It keeps climbing, first a hundred and five, jumps up to one hundred and twenty, _he can’t fucking keep up,_ and suddenly they know what this means. They all know Germany is the better team, his left leg shakes impatiently _—_ _Lukas has no idea why they haven’t won it yet._

 

Penalties draw on longer than expected; Lukas thinks he has never seen a stadium that shocked. One by one, penalties fly over, some hit the net, Manu catches a few, Gigi does too — it matters until Basti steps up — _then it matters more_. But then Basti misses too and Lukas doesn’t know why this feels like Bayern in 2012, he sees him pull his jersey up to his face and he makes a look like he wants to forget himself and Lukas doesn’t know what he will do if he cries. He thinks that he must look delirious from where he's standing.

 

He can barely breathe when they win, they hear the whistle, 6:5, the match barely matters at this point, it’s the score, it’s the win because Lukas does what he does best, _he runs._

The hands carry him and he falls around in the pile of people and he can see the flag and and the crowd is half roaring, this one meant more than the others. They’re one step closer and Lukas sees the blur, sees the black, red, yellow, sees Basti too.

 

“Hey,” Basti whispers, ignores the cold. He traces the knobs in Lukas’ spine, Lukas settles his head in Basti’s shoulder, feels Basti’s crescent smile stretch on his forehead as they stand.

He looks for Lukas’ blue eyes in the dark quiet, reaches over and gives him a kiss to close the gap.

 

 

They do a spontaneous little race through the hallway, a stupid tradition which Lukas wins by far, only because he announced it as a race when he was already halfway to his room but he chooses to omit that. He pretends he doesn’t hear Basti complaining about how that wasn’t a real race, and Lukas tries to escape Basti’s kick after just mumbling ‘ _old man’._

They almost fall into Lukas’ room, slamming the door shut, giggling like they’re nineteen again. It doesn’t fail to feel light — easy.

“We wrote history,” Basti says wide eyed, letting himself fall backwards onto the white hotel bed sheets.

“We did,” Lukas whispers, he looks down because he hasn’t fully comprehended, a heavy smile curling up on his lips as he sits down at Basti’s feet. “Again.”

They stay like that for a couple more minutes, maybe more, none of them say a word. It gets quieter, Lukas knows both of them are thinking the same. After 12 years he can tell. His smile fades a little.

He kicks off his shoes and lies down, joins Basti in staring, shoulders touching. He concentrates on the little dark spot from the mosquito he killed last night with his shoe. An acrobatic act, as Basti liked to call it, they both smile.

“ _9 days._ ”

“Bastian,” Lukas says, warningly — _because_ — he doesn’t want him to say any more. He tries to blur the thought, he humours himself as if it wasn’t all that mattered now. He doesn’t want to talk about it — so he won’t. Not with him, not now.

“If we’re optimistic” Bastian adds, disillusioned, pretending Lukas didn’t already warn him and it makes it worse than it already is.

Lukas notes how he doesn’t take his eyes off the ceiling once.

 

He puffs out air, eventually sits up with a heavy chest, leaning his back on the wall behind. Bastian follows him with his eyes, hands folded on his chest.

“You know, Basti, I have a baby girl waiting for me at home.” He drags his fingers across his jawline, down his chin, can’t believe it quite himself. He looks at Bastian for the first time in what feels like hours, Basti glances back. “And all I can think of is that I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to, I —,” he looks away again, trying not to make it sound as bad as it sounds in his head already. “I don’t want to leave this behind.”

 

Bastian pushes himself up, leaning against the wall next to Lukas. Lukas can see him chewing on the inside of his lips. It’s one of his bad habits he could never break, Lukas can hear blood rushing to his ears.

“I’m marrying Ana.”

Lukas doesn’t think.

 

He doesn’t know what he wants to say – what he wants to _scream_. He doesn’t think about the fact how his chest feels heavier with every breath, how it gets harder to swallow with every second that passes. He doesn’t know why it feels like a punch in his stomach, how it makes him want to choke and leaves him gasping for something, makes him want to get up right now and leave the room as fast as possible – some sort of pathetic fight or flee response. But he stays. There’s no logical reason not to.

He doesn’t think about why he can’t feel happy for his _best friend_ who will marry the beautiful woman of his dreams. He knows.

Lukas blinks and grabs the remote. He knows that everything he could say would be a lie and it’s late and Basti would just see through it, they’re past that. And Basti knows it too. So he keeps his mouth shut and turns on the TV.

It’s some French news show, Lukas doesn’t get a single word, but it does its purpose. He pretends to pay attention as Bastian reaches for his hand, settles there.

  
They stay like that for hours and longer, intertwined fingers, the hollow echoing of the TV filling the room. Basti talks about his little nephew and Lukas notices the light in his eyes, and everything makes him wish they were nineteen again. He pays attention to his lips as he speaks – _his eyes are so fucking green_ – the little scar under his eye, and Lukas doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it, he memorises the sight. He thinks about how much they have changed, how much time has passed and Lukas gives Basti’s hand a little squeeze.

Trembling fingers, Lukas has a soft dream that they could stay here – and he knows it’ll betray him.

 

Lukas wakes up feeling a body moving under his arm. He opens his eyes slowly and he squints enough to see Basti trying his best to get off the bed as carefully as possible.

Lukas grabs Basti’s shirt, it’s almost instinct. “Stay.” Basti freezes. “Please.”

His muscles relax as Basti lies down again, he knows better than to ask any questions.

“Do you love her?” Lukas swallows and he wants to take it back immediately – _fuck, what the fuck has he just said_ – he wants to shut up and he wants Basti to just – _not answer_ , he forces himself not to say anymore, he can’t make this worse.

Bastian turns his head and looks at him, a look, Lukas doesn’t know what it meant.

_He hates himself for opening his mouth._

“I do”, Basti says, he looks like he wants to say something else and Lukas thinks it’s amazing that the heart makes no sound when it cracks and  – _fuck_ – he never wants Basti to look at him like that again. He knew the answer before he asked the question, pathetic and yet to hear something else would change everything – he forgets how selfish that is.

It’s ridiculous and he knows it himself, he had no right to ask that question in the first place, pathetic to expect a different answer and yet he did. Lukas presses his lips together and blinks. He doesn’t want Basti to know what he’s thinking and so he keeps his fucking mouth shut because there’s one thing worse than a footballer who has slept with a man and it’s one that’s in love with a man.

He stops thinking when Basti kisses him.

 

He smells sweet and tastes like _Basti_ and his fingers have found their way on his neck, into his hair, and - _oh God_ \- they promised it would never happen again.

_He fucked up._

Reckless and young and bruised and they look both ways like the walls have eyes but they don’t care, not really – _his hands are all over his body._ They’re here and they’re together and Lukas wants Basti to do whatever he wants with him.

Lukas can feel how Basti is clenching his teeth, he can feel how he’s fighting with himself, kissing him and he’s still trying to get away. Lukas tightens the grip around his neck and pushes him down softly, closer to him.

“Don’t stop.” Basti’s muscles relax and he presses his body against Lukas’. “It’s okay.”

He buries his face in the hollow of Lukas’ neck, his mouth falls open and a moan escapes his throat. Lukas marks it as one of the most beautiful sounds he's ever heard – he gives in.

 

_9 days left._

 

 

They’re on the pitch together and it’s France now– _he doesn’t want to think that it could be the last time_ – they’re going to make this count. Basti pulls them together and it feels like Germany, Austria, South Africa, Poland, Ukraine, Brazil all over again, Basti makes him feel bigger than he is. Lukas stalls, wonders if he’s made a mistake just looking back at him because he can’t take this back now, because they will never be here again.

Lukas vows to remember them like that, he’s not good enough to be any different.

He won’t remember Basti with a wedding band around his finger or clasped onto a trophy he never got to have, he’s much too selfish for that. He’ll remember the way Basti held Louis for the first time, beer drenched at the Allianz, winning the Cup. The easy way they fell in love and how quickly and quietly it happened, how it became a small part of Lukas, then something bigger. How he learned to be quiet, stoic in the face of a love greater than their own, too afraid to give it up, enamoured by it all.

Lukas puts on a smile that is so wide that it aches, Basti’s the only one that knows what it means and so he wraps his arms around Lukas’ waist even tighter

 

Basti whispers, “Luki,” whispers, “thank you,” whispers, “please.”

Lukas has a small smile, says, “Go.”

 

Their defence is depleted, they’re the better team but Lukas didn’t realise how much they would suffer because of it.

And then suddenly it’s a corner and – _fuck fuck fuck fuck –_ his brain flatlines when he sees Basti’s hand flies up and – _oh my god it’s a penalty_ . Lukas looks at Basti and he’s being punished for a rookie mistake but it’s fatal and – Basti looks at him like that and _Lukas doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do._

Griezemann punishes them _, of course he does,_ at the 47th minute and Lukas is deluded enough to think they can pull it back.

 

_And then the 72nd and it hits hollow, they all know it’s all over._

 

 

It’s funny how, all of a sudden, a whole nation can fall quiet after being so loud. 90 minutes, 80 million dreams, just like that.

Lukas thinks this is the cruelty of the game they play, ripped back down to reality by France after flying so high and – _fuck, he feels_ _so fucking empty_.

Lukas has experienced many defeats, painful acceptances that it’s over. It’s routine, they’d done it all before. Sleepless nights, thinking about what they could have done differently, bitter that he couldn’t change it or they he wasn’t good enough for Basti and wasn’t good enough for this. He has seen it often enough, he should be used to it, to the dull feeling of disappointment, the way it aches just the same.

 

And yet it’s different, it is. It’s different because they’re the World Champions. It’s different because they just beat Italy. It’s different because there was so much hope in all of them. It’s different because it was the last time. It could have been A Happy End.

Lukas sees Basti, it’s unnerving, and he thinks that he would do anything for this to be different for him. Instead, Lukas peels players off the grass.

 

It feels like falling. And it won’t stop.

 

 

Basti knocks at his door at 2am, he looks brutal and bruised and Lukas – _Lukas just wants it to stop._ The hesitance in Basti is terrifying enough but it can’t be a question too, Lukas pulls him in before he even has to ask.

Lukas brings a leg over Basti in an attempt to straddle him whilst Basti folds, pulls up to meet his mouth. Lukas bites at Basti’s lip and when he hears a grunt, he flips him on his back, small kisses down his neck, knobs of his spine.

They’re a little rougher that night, they both need it. Lukas memorises the noises that Basti makes at his touch – a sick part of him wonders if he makes the same ones for Ana too.

 

They’re quick in getting out of there, France won’t carry the feeling it was supposed to, they all know their time is up.

 

 

“Hey,” Basti whispers, Lukas looks up.

“Hey.”

“Fuck – _Lukas_ – I miss you already,” Basti brings his hand round the small of Lukas’ neck.

“Don’t, don’t say that, just –”

“I’m so glad it was you, hey, Lukas,” Basti whispers, he tilts Lukas’ chin up, “I’m so fucking glad it was you.”

“ _Basti._ Thank you,” Lukas whispers – _this is them running out of time_ , _he needs to say everything now_ , “thank you for always being the boy who drove up to practice with me when we were nineteen.

“Thank you for loving me with my awful hair,” Basti laughs, he brings their foreheads together, they both avoid words that sound like goodbye.

 

The years caught up with them – _they finally ran out of time._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> back to this bitch who made us cry all day - bastian, what's good?


End file.
